


Date Night at Westminster.

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Blind Date, Cross-Party Relationship, First Kiss, Multi, Surprise Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5492612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has set our favourite politicians up for one big date night. Includes a proposal, some spontaneous Frozen singing and a mysterious bartender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Date Night at Westminster.

No sooner had Nigel Farage stepped into the room, he was heading towards the bar. A little table, covered by a thin red tablecloth, sporting snacks more suited at a children's party, had been pushed against the far wall. Natalie stood beside it and sighed. She had dressed rather nicely, she thought, in a very green dress embroidered with flowers. For earrings she wore mini mushrooms, and at her breast was a finely polished broach of a bee. She had been tempted to wear her favourite hat, which resembled a plant pot, but Nicola and Leanne had turned her against the idea. Natalie wished she has stayed with them, in a way. Right now the two of them were probably snuggled up together on the couch, watching Christmas films- or perhaps films about the deaths of English people, Natalie considered. By that bar, her date stood drinking. He'd continue doing that all night long, she suspected. Of all the names to draw out of Paddy Ashdown's slightly chewed hat, she had got his. _Bloody Nigel Farage_. Still, Natalie had her deadly Pomegranate Spray tucked in amongst her short blonde hair. She would use it if necessary. And so, puffing her chest up to resemble one of those mountain gorillas she loved so much, Natalie walks over to greet Nigel.

Across, on the other side of the room, stood Nick Clegg. A sweet man of a shy nature, Nick was feeling rather nervous at the thought of spending the evening with a brash, slightly arrogant Tory names David Cameron. Nick had always had his eye on David, that was true, but the thought of the two of them spending extended periods  of time together made Nick want to faint. He smoothed out the piece of paper he had pulled from Paddy's hat in his palm and read it over once more. He wanted to make sure he had it exactly right. David Cameron, it read. Nick blushed despite himself and put his hands into his pocket. He had been planning on wearing something a little different, but he feared David wouldn't recognise him. And so there he stood in his usual blue-suit-yellow-tie combo. The orange bird on his shoulder squawk. Nick tears a corner from the Liberal Democrat manifesto in his pocket and feeds it to the bird gingerly. It could get awfully fierce when it was hungry. Just then, Nick hears a voice in the hall. A posh, arrogant voice. He pats the oranges bird's head and let's it hop to his forearm. Raising the bird high, Nick whispers. "Be free". And then the orange bird is away, circling around the room before nosediving into the jukebox. Nick watches it disappear sadly. But he has no time to be sad, for David Cameron, dressed in his heads and tails, has just sauntered into the room.

George Osborne and William Hague bid David goodbye and watch as he walks up to Nick. They chuckle slightly. Poor Nick Clegg, George thinks to himself. He gives his hand a quick pinch on the hand. No, his brain snaps, you aren't allowed to feel emotion. George reaches up and feels his left cheek. He smiles. Stone cold, just as he liked it. He realised his date may not be into bloodless, reptillian Tories, and so he had decided to wear one of his high vis jackets to brighten himself up. "Where is your date?" William asks, propping himself up on a barstool. He gestures to the barman to fetch him fourteen pints. George shrugs and walks away, leaving William to wait for his own date. He finds a table near the corner of the room and looks around curiously. Part of him wished he was back at No. 11, collecting tax receipts and writing out new monetary policy. Yet there was also a side of him that was looking forward to this arrangement. And then he is there, and George's non-existent heart skips a beat or two. Clutching his yellow lunchbox to his chest, Danny Alexander strides, or rather stumbles, across the room towards George. The Chancellor rises to his feet and holds out a hand as Danny reaches him. The evening was beginning to kick off, finally.

"Err, William?". A voice interrupts William's sixth pint. As a standard peasant, his body required him to drink at least 14 pints a day. Someone once told him a horrible story about how drinking anything less than that would turn him into a socialist. William's shiver at that thought was enough to break him from his stupor. Harriet taps her foot on the ground impatiently, swinging the keys of her pink bus around her finger. "Harriet Harman!" William cries, mildly disturbed to be standing so close to his enemy. "Harriet Harperson, thank you" Harriet corrects him sharply, "I am no man". William looks her up and down. "Aye" he says simply, before turning back to the bar and reaching for his next pint. Harriet taps him on the shoulder. "You better not just sit there and drink all night" she warns. William stared at her in dismay. "How else am I do survive?" He questions. Harriet grabs him by the tie and yanks him close to her face, and William thinks the alcohol on his breath might spontaneously self-combust. "I'm in charge tonight" Harriet seethes, "Follow me, Hague". And William, cradling his remaining pints close in his arms, does exactly as he's told.

 Meanwhile, outside Parliament, a football match is taking place. There is no opposing team, or goals, or a pitch even, but in Andy's head it is very real. He imagines tackling Michael Gove, in this instance played by a grubby plastic chair left exposed on the terrace outside the Palace. The stench of the Thames reminded Andy of the North, and to himself he smiled. With a sharp kick, he sent his football flying into a window above. There was a soft smash, followed by the twinkling of glass. Andy turned his beautiful eyes upwards, just as a rather portly man with an angry expression poked his head out. "Do you mind, son?" John Prescott snapped, "I'm trying to shag me secretary in here!". Andy blinks at him and nods. He waits for John to disappear, and then walks over to retrieve his football. Except, he can't find it. "Ball?" He calls into the shadows, "Ball?". He narrows his pretty little eyes, his luscious eyelashes imparing his view slightly. "You called?" Comes a voice. Andy turns, alarmed. There stands Ed Balls, his red Labour rosette stilled pinned to his chest. "I've lost me ball, Ed" Andy says sadly. Ed pats his head and pulls him in for a tight squeeze. Andy can't breathe, but he goes along with it for sentimental purposes. "You'll never lose this ball, Andy" Ed says, and with the moonlight shining down on them, it's a beautiful scene. Andy is touched, but his thoughts were still with the other ball in his life. "That's lovely, Ed" he says, "But we really must find my ball". Ed takes Andy's hand in his own and eyes up the dark abyss that is the Palace of Westminister's terrace. "Then we shall find it together" he says.

"Do you know how we can stop global warming?" Nigel asks, waving his pipe in Natalie's direction for no particular reason, "Leaving the EU, that's how". Natalie rolls her eyes. "That's your answer to everything" she tells him. Nigel nods, as he knows it to be a fact. "UKIP supporters don't want _actual_ solutions to things" Nigel tells her over his ninety-eight pint. Natalie is tempted to give him a squirt of her pomegranate spray. At least he wasn't blaming things on immigrants this time, she supposed. "Why do you hate the EU so much, Nigel?" She asked curiously. Nigel sighed and tapped his pipe on his bottom lip. "Once, there was a man in my life" he says wistfully, "His name was Jean. He said all the right things, did all the right things. And then one day, he broke my heart. He ran off with some woman named Angela". His story is broken off by a single tear rolling down Nigel's cheek. Natalie gasps. She didn't realise Nigel possessed emotion. Perhaps it was just the drink, she wondered. "I miss him like I miss my missing ball" Nigel finishes with a heavy breath. Natalie raises an eyebrow. "Ed Balls?" She queries. Nigel shakes his head and jangles his crotch around randomly. Now Natalie is feeling more sick than pitiful. "No, lizard ball" Nigel says, and suddenly he's reaching into his trouser pocket. He pulls out a tiny, scaly object of a round nature. "I still keep it with me" Nigel says, patting its single hair proudly, "For good luck". He stops talking for a moment and looks down at the little Australian in front of him. "It won me over four million votes at the general election" he said, his chins doubling in volume, "You can borrow it, if you like". Natalie takes it gingerly. It was organic, she supposed. She wondered what kind of plant would grow if she planted it. "Thank you, Nigel" she said. She clambered onto a bar stool and, leaning up onto her tiny tiptoes, and kissed him on the cheek. "That's one down" the barman muttered.

"And then I said to my gamekeeper" David said, twirling his cane around in his hand, "I don't care if it's only got one leg, I want you to shoot the bastard". Nick smiles awkwardly. He wasn't particularly enjoying the violent, snobbish elements of David's anecdotes, but he did like listening to his voice. It sent Nick off into a daze. In his head, he and David were skipping through a field of ballot papers hand in hand. "Nick? Nick?" David asked, putting a hand on his date's shoulder, blue eyes narrowing. Nick was brought crashing down from his reverie. He blushes and directed his gaze towards the floor. "Are you quite alright, old chap?" David asked, the concern in his voice poorly disguised. They had been walking aimlessly though the corridors of Parliament for about twenty minutes now. Nick felt his cheeks burning. That had been so very embarrassing. David would never take an interest in him now. "Why do you look so sad, Nick?" David asks, and his tone is unusually gentle, "You're not _still_ cut up about the election, are you?". Nick shakes his head, though he was still feeling rather down about the eight seats ordeal. "It's not that" he said. David stops swirling his cane and instead takes his date's hand in his own. Nick freezes, and yet his legs are threatening to bend at any moment. "Then what is it?" David asks, leading Nick along the corridor gently. The Lib Dem was slightly stunned by David's sudden kindness. Was it a trick? Nick couldn't help but feel it was. "Well, the thing is" Nick stutters, "I _really_ like you, David". Kill me, Nick thinks, kill me now. David stares at him for a moment, but after a while his expression begins to soften. "Dear, sweet Nicholas" he says, sinking to one knee, extending his arms as if about to recite a sonnet of some sort, "I love you, most ardently. Please do me the honour of accepting my hand". Nick couldn't help but squeal slightly. He took David's hand in his own and wiped a tear from his eye. And for the first time in months, it was a tear of joy. "Yes, David. I will" he replies. David leaps up, scoops Nick into his arms and kisses him. The barman, who had been watching from afar, smiles and nods to themself. "That's two down" they say, before scooting away.

Squawk. An orange bird flies out of the jukebox just as George pushed his pound coin into the slot. "Bloody liberals" he grumbled, "If only my gamekeeper was here". Danny shifted his feet awkwardly. He had been enjoying his time with George so far, even if he didn't seem overly impressed by liberalism. Then again, who was? "I don't think there is any NWA on there, George" Danny informs him. George sighs angrily and begins picking at the coin slot. "What are you doing, George?" Danny asks, somewhat alarmed, yet fascinated by the sight of George's beautiful, slender fingers pulling away at the jukebox. George shakes his head and stares at the machine hard. "Trying to get my pound coin back" he says, "We can't afford any waste in this economy. Might as well use the Force". He waves his hand, and seconds later, the pound coin is flying out and landing in his palm. Danny stares at him, amazed. "Is there any where we can eat that little picnic of yours?" George asks, looking around the room. "There's an adventure playground outside" Danny suggests. George blinks at him. "Don't be silly" he scoffs. Danny shrugs. "There's a wooden train" he argues. Something flickers in George's eyes, and all of a sudden, he's grabbing Danny's hand and pulling him outside. The air is cool and dark, but George doesn't care. "Toot toot!" He cries, clambering into the wooden train Danny had told him about. Danny squeezed in next to him and clicked open his little yellow box. "I hope you packed pasties" George says, licking his lips hungrily. Danny nodded him and handed him a Greggs wrapper. "Cold, though" Danny says, "There's no VAT on them, then". George smiles, impressed. This Danny fellow knew him all too well. "What's that?" George asks, nodding to a scrap of paper at the bottom of Danny's box. It's partially covered by Freddo frogs, but George can tell its a government paper of some sort. "Oh, that's the script from my yellow budget" Danny explains, becoming rather sad all of a sudden, "Hardly any one listened to it in the Commons". George furrowed his eyebrows. "I would have listened to it" he said, and he swears he can feel his non-existent hear pounding. Danny smiles at him, almost as ginger as his hair. And then Danny is leaning in, and for some reason George panics. And before their lips have a chance to meet, George whispers. "Can we play trains first?". Danny nods. And as they are happily tooting away, pretending to be driving the first HS2 train all the way up to the Northern Powerhouse, the barman crosses their arms. And before they disappear once more, they speak out against the cool air. "Make that three".

 "Please slow down, Harriet" William begs, his remaining pints sloshing about the pink van. Harriet slams her hand on the horn, making the driver in front of her jump a mile. "Just because I'm a woman, doesn't mean I can't drive" she snaps. William gives up trying to argue with her. He rests his head against the window and shuts his eyes. He's bound to die with Harriet at the wheel. It seemed she was keen on driving him to destruction as well as her party. "Where are we going?" William asks, "Will Angelina Jolie be there?". Harriet gasps and slaps him hard. "Gah! Sexism!" She cries. "But I only-" William begins, but is cut off by another sharp slap. He sulks in his seat. Of all the people to be set up with, and he gets Harriet Harman. "We're going to the polling station" Harriet explains. William checks his watch. "Harriet, the polling stations closed months ago" he says, and despite his drunkeness he knows he's right. "We're going to capture members of the electorate and hold them hostage" Harriet says, still speeding on through London. William splutters on his pint. "What?!" He cries, "You're mental, Harman". Harriet slams the breaks on so hard, William's gigantic head is sent flying into the windscreen. Thankfully, his pints survive. "I am no man" Harriet screeches. William backs up against the window, scared. "So why are we kidnapping members of the electorate?" He asks. "We're going to make them vote Labour" Harriet says, eyes wide with anger and madness. William checks his watch again. "That is the only way you'll get people to vote Labour, I suppose" he reasons. Harriet glares at him, and so he shuts up quickly. "They have to vote Labour" she said through gritted teeth. William can't help but feel sorry for his rival . "Let it go, Harriet" he said, his Northerness stopping him from speaking gently no matter how much he wanted to, "Let it go". Harriet relaxes her grip on the steering wheel and leans back in her seat. "Don't let them in. Don't let them see" Harriet says, "Be the good girl you always have to be". William nods and pats her on the shoulder. "Conceal don't feel" he tells her. Harriet unfastens her seatbelt and leaps through the window of the pink van. William gasps and leans out of his own window. Harriet is stood on the roof of the van, holding an invisible microphone to her lips. "HERE I STAND, IN THE LIGHT OF DAY" Harriet sings, her voice truly angelic, "LET THE TORIES RAGE ONNNNNNN. THEY NEVER REALLY BOTHERED ME ANYWAY". William clambers up onto the roof and stands beside her, eyebrows raised so far they seem to escape his bald head entirely. "You don't mind us?" William asks, confused. Harriet twirls over to him and throws her arms around his neck. "I am letting it go, William" she said, in a strangely dramatic voice, "Letting it all go". William glances down as Harriet pulls him ever closer. "Forgive me, pints" he says, his head filled with pictures of their fresh, lukewarm beauty, his thoughts interrupted only by the strong smell of Harriet's rather alluring perfume, "Forgive me". A pedestrian on the opposite end of the steeet nods and continues their walk along the road. A bartenders uniform is hidden under their neat, blue blazer. "And so we reach four".

 Back at Westminster, Andy and his companion were still searching for that ever elusive football. Andy walks over to the edge of the terrace and looks down into the murky waters of the Thames. "There it is!" He cries, and before Ed can say a word in protest, his darling Andy is diving head first into the river. "Andy!" Ed gasps, running to the railings. He could not see his friend anywhere. Desperate to find him again, Ed jumps into the Thames. There is an enormous splash, and brown water is sent in every direction. A spurt of it flies through the broken window on the side of the Palace. "I'm still trying to shag me secretary, damnit" John Prescott calls out into the night. But Ed Balls isn't listening. The explosion of water caused by his super sonic dive continues. He sees Andy fly up into the air. Desperately, Andy swipes at the air. He can see his football only a couple of feet awa. But then he is falling, and soon he finds himself back in the murky waters of the river. A single piece of wood floats down alongside him. Andy jumps on and take a good look around. He can't see either of his Balls. "Ed?" Andy calls out, scared, "Ed where are you?". There is a small splutter, and all of a sudden, Ed's head is emerging from the surface. "Andy! You're safe" he says. Andy sighs in relief and smile at him fondly. "I'm fine" he says, "Come on, I'll pull you up". Ed stops him. "There is room for only one on that plank" he says. Andy shakes his head. "Don't be a tool, Ed, there's plenty of room" He argues, "I'm not leaving without my Balls". Tears fill his beautiful green eyes . Ed looks up to him from the dark waters, his tired eyes shining in the moonlight. He lifts Andy's football from the depths and throws it to his friend. "Take it" he says quietly, "take it and remember me". Andy blinks back his tears and seizes Ed's arm. "I'll never let go, Ed" he promises, "I'll never let go". And then Ed is slipping away from him, and Andy is clutching his football , crying into the night. Moments later, there is a soft scrapping. Ed Balls has washed up on the shore. Andy, using the wooden plank as a raft, paddles over to him. "Ed! Ed!" Andy cries, kneeling down beside his body, "Wake up, Ed!". He wipes a strand of soggy hair from his friend's eyes and cups his cute, chubby little cheeks. "Come back to me, Ed" he says, leaning down and kissing him gently. There is silence, and for a moment Andy thinks he's lost him. But then, as sharp as a gunshot, there comes a loud cough. Ed Balls darts upright, ejecting dark water from his lungs. Andy cradles him, forgetting about his football all together. "Oh, Ed, I thought I'd lost you" Andy weeps. Ed snuggles up close to Andy, his skin beginning to warm once more, "Oh, Andy" he replies with a smile, "You will never lose me". A shadowy finger watches from Westminister bride. She taps her fingers on the railing and smiles despite herself.

She strolls back into Parliament, hands in her pocket, and finds her way to the bar once more. Somewhere in the Palace, Nick Clegg is feeding David Cameron grapes, whilst in another part, George Osborne and Danny Alexander are recreating the first trip of the Flying Scotsman. Natalie Bennett is teaching Nigel Farage the facts about immigration over a pint of bitter, whilst William Hague and Harriet Harman are planning to elope together. And then there is Ed Balls and Andy Burnham. Sweet Andy, and little Ed. The barman feels impressed with their work. The bar is almost deserted now, and yet she remains, cleaning the odd glass here and there. No one knew she was there. How could they? She sets down her cloth and wonders over to the far wall. There hangs a painting of a woman with neat, blonde hair and a blue suit. Pearls hang around her neck. It is a face unmistakable for so many, capable of inspiring both hatred and pride. Yet, for the bartender, it is like looking in a mirror.

 

_**THE END.** _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for accompanying me on this magical journey.  
> If you still don't understand who the 'bartender' is, I pity you!


End file.
